


The Battle Wages On

by ukulelefoot



Category: Holby City
Genre: Angst, F/F, i'm sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 18:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9197483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukulelefoot/pseuds/ukulelefoot
Summary: Bernie finally manages to get Serena to be taken home for some sleep.  Set after I do, I do, I do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a generic piece a while ago (with no particular ship in mind), but after last night's episode, I've found it a good home. I'm not ok.

She won’t let anything show until you’re safely through the front door, but you notice the way her eyes are glistening from unshed tears. You don’t say anything - she’s a proud woman and you know she hates to cry in public. A hand on her back guiding her from the car to her house is as much as you think she can take.

As soon as you shut the door, she crouches down, hands braced against the bottom stair, and you hear her wheeze out a quiet cry before inhaling a lungful of air and letting out a heart-wrenching wail. You freeze for a moment, but your brain takes over, and by the end of the second sob, you’ve sat down on the stair and gathered her up into an impossibly tight embrace, one hand around her shoulders, the other holding her head to your chest, a thumb stroking the soft hair at the nape of her neck. You bring her even closer by crossing your ankles behind her and all of a sudden she’s so small, a tiny shaking ball of pain wrapped up against your front.

Her sobs aren’t relenting and your heart breaks a little upon hearing each one. You only now realise that you’re crying too, your silent tears falling onto the top of her head. She’s got a fistful of your shirt and her other hand is awkwardly stuck between your bodies, you feel it shift every time she takes a deep breath in preparation for another guttural wail. You press kisses to her hair, her forehead, her temple, any part of her you can reach with your lips.

She relaxes a little, from pure exhaustion, you reckon. Five consecutive breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Then she deflates and is a dead weight in your arms. You take the hand that was clutching your shirt, place it on your knee, and gently stroke down each of the digits in turn. Once you’ve finished, she moves it back to your chest, this time her fingers splay out over your collarbone. You return your hand to her head and play at her scalp with your fingertips. Her breaths are returning to normal and you let out a sigh.

God knows how long you sit like this. It could be fifteen minutes, it could be an hour. You genuinely don’t have a clue.

She finally shifts a little, bringing her trapped hand up to her face to dry it with her sleeve. You help her move to sit against the wall and tell her you won’t be a minute before rushing to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water. You come back and find her staring at the carpet, eyes unfocused. Her face is so pale and sad and you want to make it better, you want to take all her pain away.

You touch her hand and she wraps it weakly around the glass. After a few meagre sips, you feel a little relief. You settle yourself down beside her, bodies connected all the way from your shoulders down to your shoes, one hand on her thigh, and just sit there until she finishes the water and discards the glass on the stair.

She curls back into you, but you’re not very comfortable on the floor so you manage to get her into the upright and lead her up the stairs, supporting her around the waist from behind.

You get her changed into her pyjamas - the fluffy, light blue ones with the sheep on that you know she likes best - and she lies down, curled up as tightly as she can manage. You wonder if she might start to cry again, but she just stares blankly at nothing in particular, so you reach out a hand and stroke her fringe across her forehead, fingers trailing down along her jawline, before quickly getting yourself changed and snuggling up behind her. You try to envelop her, an arm holding her flush against your front, a leg placed over her hip. She hums - you’re relieved to hear a sound from her that isn’t one of pain - and you nuzzle at her neck, pressing soft kisses along her shoulder.

It’s so quiet you almost miss it, but she whispers out a ‘thank you’ and pulls your arm closer around her, linking your fingers together. You can feel her shaking and sniffling and your heart breaks for the millionth time today as you whisper in her ear that you’ve got her.

It takes a long time, but finally exhaustion takes over and you feel her fall asleep. Only then do you let the whole thing sink in and you use all your strength to stop your own sobs. Tears stream silently down your cheeks and you cry til your throat feels like it’s torn to shreds. Only then does the pain turn to anger. How dare this happen? How dare someone so wonderful and gorgeous be hurt like this?

You move gently, shift just enough so that you can see her face. She doesn’t look peaceful. She doesn’t look angelic. She looks like she’s aged ten years in ten hours.

You couldn’t love her more.


End file.
